


Puppet Master

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Mecatl's Magnificent Manuscript [1]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen, Thaos (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: As Mecatl leaves Sun in Shadow and sets foot on the surface of Burial Isle again, and looks up to see the broken crown on Woedica’s statue has mended, he thinks of his own future first. And *that* looks very promising indeed.





	Puppet Master

**Author's Note:**

> (prompt 54: versatility)

The after-image of the energy keeps buzzing at the tips of his thoughts for a moment after the deed is done; not unlike a spell, and yet different, more powerful than anything he has ever felt. Countless souls reaped across Dyrwood… But even so broken, they can serve a purpose, greater than any of their lives could have ever been.

Mecatl smiles to himself and to the blurry, distant image of a woman walking along a seemingly endless path. He has never felt called to such a high purpose; he would rather be just a tool than the precious material it tinkers with. Of all the gods, Woedica certainly understands that, as well as the preference to direct the flow of events from the shadows when it suits him – because she does the same. And while he has never been very pious or devoted, he has spent a lot of time at court and among nobles; he knows a lot about showing respect. Perhaps the Queen will find that a competent courtier is better than… Ah, well, calling Thaos incompetent would do him a great injustice. Mecatl does not have any sympathy for his old mentor, but he can recognize artistry when he sees it.

He gives a small nod of recognition towards Thaos’ lifeless body. Should Woedica give her faithful servant his memories back – that is what Mecatl would do, were he to make that decision – things are going to get very interesting. And that is one of the most important qualities of life, after all.

Bending a knee – for comfort rather than out of respect – he leans over Thaos’ body, reaching for the small chain, no longer hidden by the ceremonial vestments, tangled in a strand of bloodied grey hair. Carefully, not wanting to break it, he takes the chain off and lays the medallion on his palm. It is simple but beautiful, an example of some ancient craftsman’s excellence; made of copper and iron, with a single adra stone he could easily hide in his palm. The carving depicts a regal silhouette, crowned, her tiny face smooth; Woedica, as she used to be before her fall.

Mecatl smiles again, amused. He should have commended Thaos for his taste in women. Perhaps, should he not be otherwise occupied, some twenty years from now he will try to find Lady Webb’s soul to see what became of it. For now, though…

He puts the medallion around his neck, then gets up and straightens his robes – the Queen surely delights in fine things just as he does. When he turns to take one last look at the tall adra pillar, he can see a reflection hovering there for an instant, gone as soon as he blinks. A haughty, regal woman with an iron crown upon her brow, her face smooth. He bows with a flourish, a too-grand, courtly gesture that would be more in place in a Vailian duc’s house, and when he does that, the adra vibrates lightly, a quiet sound like a ringing laughter filling his mind.

Gesturing at his companions, Mecatl turns towards the chamber door. With a nod at Aloth, he leads them out, leaving the young elf alone with the future he has chosen.

Like Thaos, Mecatl has no doubts that Aloth will inevitably fail – but on the way, he will break what needs to be broken, ultimately making the Leaden Key stronger in the process. And before that happens, Mecatl is going to enjoy watching the new Grandmaster’s errors. In time, he might even advise Aloth again, guide him and let him take all the credit and all the blame. And later, who knows – perhaps Woedica will give Thaos his memories back, intact, but not _all_ of them; why throw away a perfectly good tool? But there will be plenty of time to ponder it tomorrow.

Now, as Mecatl leaves Sun in Shadow and sets foot on the surface of Burial Isle again, and looks up to see the broken crown on Woedica’s statue has mended, he thinks of his own future first. And _that_ looks very promising indeed.

* * *

Sometimes at night, there is a voice whispering in his dreams, eerie and captivating like the sound of an adra chime, speaking the phrases of a dead language and mysteries of a very much alive art of bending minds. Art of quiet words and quick thoughts, illusions and reflections, similar to wizardry and yet very different – but not so different that he could not learn it. His reward from Woedica, perhaps first of many. How appropriate that the Queen of the gods should grant him the power over kith minds.

He learns as he always has, with joy and satisfaction; knowledge is a pleasure of the mind, but sadly – and fortunately – very few recognize it as such. Woedica does, and Mecatl accepts her inconspicuous but priceless blessing with a ready smile and a spark of interest and a nod of respect, welcoming her as one scholar would greet another. She teaches him and they study together – the workings of kith minds and the intricate webs of power are just another kind of science, one he speaks of the least but values the most.

His companions, those who decided to stay at his side for a while, think he has simply learnt new spells – maybe even invented some, as would be appropriate for someone planning to become an archmage in due time. Mecatl never explains, only smiles secretively, and they all smile back at him, and jokingly promise not to breath a word about that to other mages, and everything ends in jests, and is swiftly forgotten.

But his enemies, on those rare occasions some feel the need and find the courage to face him – they know. He can see it in their eyes during combat, when it is too late to flee with their honour intact – the fear that they will die with their actions not being their own, with their thoughts crammed into some desolate corners of their minds, that they will not even know all that until it is too late, that the last blink of an eye would be over too fast to regain _themselves_. They have heard of Glanfathan mind-hunters, they have witnessed what the ciphers of Dunryd Row could do, and they recognize the familiar uneasiness and dread.

And the last thing they see is how Mecatl’s polite smile turns to iron.


End file.
